


The Best Taste

by memorandum



Category: Bandom, Burzum (Band), Darkthrone (Band), Real Person Fiction, Until the Light Takes Us (2008)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Black Metal, Gift Fic, M/M, Male Slash, Monster Boys, Musicians, Romance, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:41:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27257356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memorandum/pseuds/memorandum
Summary: “So long as it isn’t Slayer.”(trust me, the puns are cute in this one.)a gift for lilith696
Relationships: Varg 'Count Grishnack' Vikernes/Gylve 'Fenriz' Nagell, Varg Vikernes/Gylve Nagell
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	The Best Taste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilith696](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith696/gifts).



> I had started with many complex ideas, but I settled on something very traditional and a little stereotyped, I guess. That said, I’m a fool for both when you add some romance to it. You’ll see.
> 
> I love this pairing. Again, this is a gift for lilith696—I hope you like it. Happy Halloween!

Throughout their entire phone call, Gylve’s voice has sounded terribly distorted and Varg is certain he’s imagining it. Lying on the couch with the phone pressed to his ear, the cord is wound around his entire arm like a snake that further constricts whenever he moves.

“Varg?” Gylve speaks through an unnatural rasp, “Hey. Are you still there?”

Varg rustles a bit and sits up some. “Hey. Yeah, I’m here. Kind of.”

“Will you be okay until I get to see you tonight?”

“I think so.”

Despite the poor quality of the call (whether real or otherwise), Varg hears the empathy in Gylve’s tone and he makes the decision to push his limits; he wants to see Gylve and no wretched “influenza symptoms” were going to stop him. That’s what everyone seems to think he has, right?—The flu? Happens every time.

When Varg says his goodbyes and ends the call, he continues to lie on the couch, exhausted and too sore to move a muscle. Whenever he tries again, however, significant time has passed that he feels undyingly grateful for. Every second burned is a second closer to touching Gylve again. It’s kind of amusing, he thinks, how he’d likely be teased in jest by the other guys for how much of a “sucker” he’s become for his boyfriend. It’s a fair accusation, after all.

As Varg changes his clothes and runs a brush through his long hair, his goal is to be as presentable as possible despite feeling so lousy. Just one glance at his reflection and he can see how visibly sallow he appears—Not very flattering and certainly not a good look to bear at Helvete with Øystein’s staunch opinions among copycat black metal fans with equally copycat corpse paint.

—Wait a minute. Corpse paint.

Varg purses his lips as he considers the notion. It seems like a good idea and—Yeah, sure. Why not?—he runs with it. He fetches the materials he needs and goes to stand in front of the bathroom mirror, covering his face with black and white (perhaps comparable to Dead, albeit his own variety) and soon, the dark alarming circles beneath his eyes are hidden completely beneath the corpse paint. The getup is complete as Varg slips a black jacket onto his shoulders and flips the hood over his head. At least he doesn’t look like a poser...

*****

“You look like a poser.”

It’s the first thing out of Øystein’s mouth when Varg steps inside the shop. “Today alone, I’ve seen about six or seven guys who look just like.. whatever it is you’re doing.”

Varg narrows his eyes and considers a retort, but Øystein is just being Øystein so he lets it slide with a little sarcasm instead. “Good, that’s what I’m going for.”

“Go join Kiss or something,” Øystein quips and Varg knows he’s off the hook from any more interrogation.

“So long as it isn’t Slayer.”

It’s getting dark outside, but not so much that the moonlight doesn’t shine as it begins to show itself. Actually, a big, bright full moon will illuminate the streets and beyond them, the forests. Varg has been looking forward to it.

“Have you seen Gylve?” To be honest, that’s the only reason why Varg stopped in at all.

Øystein nonchalantly shuffles through a box of cassette tapes, plucking one at a time to place a sticker on the cases. “I haven’t, no. Is he supposed to—” With an abrupt pause, he looks to see the door closing as Varg had apparently left the shop in some kind of hurry. “Okay, then.” He shakes his head and returns to work.

Varg, on the other hand, has all the information he needs. He goes to Gylve’s place in perfect timing, now with the black of night surrounding him. Gylve is waiting at the door to let him in and Varg weakly falls into his arms.

“You barely made it,” Gylve says while lovingly helping him to the bedroom. “And what’s this, Count Dracula? Your disguise to hide from Mina?” The pad of his thumb brushes Varg’s cheek, causing the other man to crinkle his nose.

“Well, no need to play ‘Under a Funeral Moon’ for some romantic background music just yet. Øystein didn’t like it too much either. I must’ve done a shittier job than I thought.”

Gylve laughs and the sound is joyful. “Hm. Let’s just say.. I’m glad it’s coming off.” He brushes the hood from Varg’s head where he can run his fingers through his hair, his sharp, pointy nails gently grazing here and there. Varg wipes away some of the paint from his face and leans in to crush his pale lips against his boyfriend’s. He hears Gylve’s pulse begin to quicken and soon, the both of them are on the bed, grabbing pieces of clothing, trying to remove everything all at once.

There’s a taste of blood in their mouths, that which Gylve surrenders and Varg so desperately needs. As the night progresses, Gylve begins to change and Varg adores every inch of him. Everyone knows that wolves taste better than humans. Immortally feral, they’re perfect for each other, bonded together until the day that time may end.

Later on, they’ll have the same debate they always have, a sequel to whether cornflakes are better as crispy or soft—“Fangs or canines?”


End file.
